


A New Dance, No Tango

by Algy Swinburne (milverton)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Dash of Bi Panic, Aging, Closeted John Watson, Dancing, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Flirting, Horny John Watson, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/Algy%20Swinburne
Summary: John realises he probably looks like a tit just standing around and gawking, so he starts to move, eyes straying from Sherlock to skitter over the crowd twisting rapturously around them. He and Sherlock are not standing close, per say, could fit two people back-to-back between them, but it’s clear to anyone watching that they’re two men dancing with each other--or, more precisely, two middle-aged men dancing together to a song that begs to be twerked to at a central London pub, aggressively blokey in the way most local pubs are.In which John and Sherlock find themselves alone on the dancefloor, and John realises he’s in over his head.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	A New Dance, No Tango

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the infidelity tag. And the UST between Sherlock and John remains as such, if that’s not your cuppa.
> 
> This takes place between TSoT and HLV, so everyone is blissfully unaware of Mary's super secret assassin past.
> 
> I've linked to 3 songs in the text, if you'd like to listen to them for atmospheric purposes. You'll see each one as you go.

“I have to say," Mary comments, watching Greg effusively clink pints with a spotty constable that John would be hard-pressed to remember by name. “Greg doesn’t look a day over 40.”

“That’s a _bit_ generous,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Is it, though? He and John could pass for the same age.”

John indignantly places (or, more accurately, bangs) his pint glass back onto the table. “Come on, now.”

Is every-fucking-one trying to tell John, in none too subtle terms, that he’s finally transformed into a wizened old man? Earlier, Sherlock had mentioned that John “looked tired," then proceeded to enumerate all of the reasons _why_ he looked tired. John still hasn't stopped thinking about it. Yes, he hasn’t slept very much in the past 6 months, but it’s to be expected. He has a bloody 6-month-old.

“It’s a compliment, darling," Mary says. "I’m saying you look younger than you are. ‘Not a day over 40?’”

“You’ve just said I look the same age as someone who’s 8 years older than me,” John says grumpily. “Not really seeing the compliment.”

“Oh, relax. You’ve nothing to worry about because you’re so fit—you’re my _big, strapping_ man. Did I mention fit?”

“Don’t think so. Say it again.”

Mary snorts and presses a kiss to the corner of John’s quirked lips.

Despite the frowsty atmosphere of the pub and his perpetual state of exhaustion that certain people have felt the need to point out as a visible marker on his face, John is enjoying himself. For one, it’s a blissful reprieve from Rosie duty, for both him and Mary. And two--John gets to see Sherlock in a purely social context, which is a rarity these days. As he listens to Sherlock expatiate on the tragic love triangle involving the two women and a man sitting at the booth across from theirs, he becomes very aware of how much he’s missed the madman. Every so often, when Sherlock pauses for a breath, Mary peppers Sherlock with questions and challenges his reasoning (to no avail), while John keeps mum, sitting back and allowing Sherlock to perform his magnificence unimpeded. Because it's what John does; it’s what John likes to do. _That's the frailty of genius, John; it needs an audience,_ Sherlock had told him once. Granted, Sherlock had been referring to a serial killer, at the time, which Sherlock is most certainly not (though, that’s not to say he wouldn’t be a doyen of murder if he decided, one day, to wake up on the other side of the law), but John had recognised its dual-purpose.

“We meet again, Watson-Holmes table.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut, and the three of them look up at Greg, who’d emerged like a freighter out of the heavy fog of drunken pub goers.

“I’m Greg Lestrade.” He looks pointedly at Sherlock. “That’s right. _Greg_. G-R-E-G, for all the bloody geniuses out there.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ll be your hostess-- _host_ for the evening.”

Mary snickers at that.

Greg’s eyes are glassy, and he’s giving them a dopey, zenlike grin, but when he sweeps his eyes over their table, where John is nursing a pint, Mary’s just finished a G&T, and Sherlock’s halfway through a rum sour, the smile disappears.

“I won’t have this, not on my birthday. You lot haven’t drunk nearly enough.”

“Not yet,” Mary says, a glimmer in her eye.

Greg jerks a nod at the bar. “Lemme get you a couple shots, yeah?”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Mary says, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll get us something, my treat. What d’you fancy?”

Mary ends up buying 4 tequila shots, per Greg’s request.

“To good mates,” Greg says, raising his shot glass.

“To another 50 years?” John says cheekily.

“Fuck no. Just off me at 85. Good age to go, that.”

“Beheading or garroting?” Sherlock wants to know.

Greg considers this, looking deeply serious. “A garroting into a beheading, I’d say.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, sounding intrigued. “Perhaps we should get this in writing.”

John chuffs a laugh out of his nose, and they all cheers and down the shots.

“Ugh,” Mary says, slamming down the empty glass, nose scrunched in disgust.

“Agreed,” Sherlock says with a sour look on his face, equally appalled, even though John has seen the man put far more unappetising things in his mouth for the love of science.

"Oi! Boss!"

One of the rowdier constables, a rough-looking young woman, is beckoning Greg over to the other side of the room, holding up a tray of filled shotglasses like an offering to the gods. It's a siren call that Greg answers without second thought.

Over the next half hour, Mary has the bright idea to buy John, Sherlock, and herself a few more shots, and John gets comfortably sort-of pissed. His cockles are warmed, and he’s cosy in the little U-shaped booth, Mary to his left, Sherlock to his right. His top two people. (Rosie, of course, doesn’t count. She’s a whole other kettle of fish.) And Greg, he’s here too, and he’s great, but he’s not Sherlock. Nor is he Mary. But he’s not Sherlock either.

John blearily watches a group of overdressed women wearing pink sashes and tiny phallic party hats congregate on the dancefloor, feeling like a fish out of water. This pub’s clientele skews young, and he can’t help but think that he, Greg, Mary, and Sherlock are _harshing the vibe_ , but is proved wrong when he notices that the music’s gotten louder with intent. The DJ's astutely realised it’s that fuzzy time of the night where nearly no one isn’t at least squiffy and everyone is utterly besotted with life. Buzzing with good feeling, people want to dance it out.

The [song](https://youtu.be/xi3c-9qzrPY) currently poking holes in John's eardrums has a woman murmuring in sultry tones over a bubblegum pop beat, very possibly catering to the hen do women, who are screaming lyrics at each other in delight. It’s not exactly John's style, but that doesn’t stop Mary from running her hand up his thigh and yelling into his ear, “Dance with me.” 

John turns his head left, then right, very deliberately, so everyone understands his position on the matter. He adds a “Nope" for extra clarity.

“ _John_ ,” Mary whinges.

John sniffs. “I don’t dance."

“I’ll dance with you."

John snaps his head to the man who'd just spoken. The man, Sherlock Holmes, who will dance to _this_ song, which exists more than a century away from the music John associates with him. With John's wife.

“What, really?" Mary says, sounding both dubious and delighted. " _You?_ ” 

John looks down at their table, which confirms his suspicion. There are 2 abandoned shots in front of Sherlock, and he’s only taken a few birdlike sips of both. Sherlock is definitely not drunk. 

"Yes, _me,”_ Sherlock sneers. “I’m a far better dancer than John, anyway.”

John scoffs. “Yeah, okay, being a posh git who knows how to ballroom dance doesn’t make you a better dancer, universally.”

“Might I remind you, within the first hour of our lesson, you stepped on my toes 15 times?”

“Fuck off, it wasn’t 15 times.”

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “Don’t insult me. It was 15.”

Sherlock teaching John how to waltz for John’s wedding had been one of the more daunting encounters of John’s life, and John had been in the crossfire of war and had faced off with serial killers. John had dreaded the day for weeks, and he hadn’t really been sure why, at the time. The _why_ had been swiftly answered when he’d placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock had placed a hand on John’s shoulder, other hands clasped, outstretched, palms slippery with sweat, and John could feel Sherlock’s sinewy solidity beneath his hand, could smell him, had his senses flooded blindingly with _Sherlock_. Their proximity had been...new. They’d never, in the many years they’ve been friends, been so intimately close, and all at once it’d become clear John had been starving for it. That day at 221b, he had felt a powerful pull for them to be even closer yet, dangerous, stray thoughts threatening to become action, but had reasoned and decided, quite judiciously, that the point had been to learn how to ballroom dance for his damn wedding to Mary, and unequivocally _not to Sherlock_. So, after the dance lesson, John had decided not to dwell on the concerning congeries of emotions it had inspired. It’d ended, he’d got married, and everyone had moved on.

John shakes off the memories, the bitter thoughts, and looks over at the dancefloor.

He can see Mary and Sherlock in a perfect, unobstructed view. 

Mary is positively radiant and springy, shimmying here, gyrating there, and John zones in on her silk off-white tank top, draped flatteringly over her curves. Being in the thick of breastfeeding, there’s more heft in her breasts, which jiggle ever-so-slightly with every energetic bounce. And since the Boob Jiggle is a delicacy, and John is a man of culture, he settles in for the show, thankful that the table is covering him from the waist down.

_I wanna boyfriend, so put it on me_

_I'm looking for a man who can take that heat_

_Wanna boyfriend, but not too sweet_

_My baby gotta be tough while he running that street_

_Is he ride or die?_

_I've been looking so long for a guy to turn me on  
_

He shifts his eyes to Sherlock, who cuts a dash in black trousers and a salmon-pink button-down clinging to his lean chest. Rhapsodic with the music, he’s moving his body in alarmingly lithe ways that has John transfixed. It’s fascinating to witness Sherlock like this, so untethered and loose, nothing like the buttoned-up, imperious character Sherlock assumes in day-to-day. For a man who purports to use his body for transport only, he seems fluent in the artistry of movement. John has never, not once, seen him ooze this kind of confident sensuality. It's not new, however, that Sherlock is entirely unselfconscious as the last man standing, quite literally, amidst a sea of women on a hen do bender, being watched by an audience of judgmental eyes, dancing suggestively to _those_ lyrics. John has always admired Sherlock’s confidence in every aspect of life, but also envies him for it--the freedom of being himself, no holds barred. 

Sherlock has his back to Mary, now, and she places a hand on his undulating hip and fits behind him, pretends to grind up against him. Sherlock looks over his shoulder at her and smirks, and she throws back her head and laughs.

John squirms in his seat, caught off guard by how _unbelievably sexy_ Mary and Sherlock are together. 

He’s also caught off guard by not knowing, decisively, whether he’s more jealous of Mary or of Sherlock, or if he simply wants to edge between them and-- 

A hand smacked onto his shoulder startles John within an inch of his life.

It’s only Greg, he’d slid his way into the booth beside John, but John hadn’t even noticed.

“Careful,” Greg says. “I think Sherlock Holmes is gonna steal your missus.”

As John watches Sherlock place a hand on his hip and snake his body, he says, drily, “I’m starting to think that won’t be a problem.”

“Yeah. Reckon he does go in for that sort of thing after all, eh? Boyfriends.” Greg says, tone dripping with _look at us over here being super heterosexual chums, and Sherlock over there being camper than a row of pink tents._ John just grunts in response. “My MIT kids are gobsmacked. It’s Sherlock Holmes like they’ve never seen him before. Think he’ll need to do a bit of spin-doctoring on his image after this so he’ll be able to scare them off again proper. But it’s nice to see him letting loose, yeah? He’s been wound up for the better part of the year, the sulky bastard.”

Greg does get talkative when he’s pissed, it’s a known fact, but John’s grateful for it this time. He's grateful for Greg’s presence in general, because it’d pulled him back from the precipice of an internal crisis that he’d almost pitched over a few times in the past few years.

John clears his throat. "Well. We’ve not had many cases these days. Suppose that’s got him in a state.”

“Nah. I’ve given him a good amount of belters.”

This gives John pause. He and Sherlock had only gone on 2 cases within the past 6 months, and he’d been gasping for more because life in suburbia is utter hell, and while he loves Rosie to bits, the tedium of parenthood is driving him round the twist. In desperation to be unstuck from the stultifying inertia, he's been texting Sherlock once a week, like clockwork, to see if there were cases on (which, frankly, also doubled as an excuse to check in on the man), no matter how uninspired they were, but 8 times out of 10 John had either been ignored or brushed off.

“You mean other than the one with the monkeys and the one with the harpoon?” John asks.

“Ooh yeah. Loads more, mate. Did he not tell you? Figured you just couldn’t make it, what with the little one and all.”

John bristles. “He didn’t tell me.”

“I mean, they weren’t as exciting as the monkey one. That old man was fucking mental. All that bosh about a ‘life serum’--”

John is offended Sherlock hadn’t needed him on other cases. Or had he simply not wanted him there? John had expressly asked to be included if anything had come up. And, in all honesty, he had wanted to see Sherlock more often, but hadn’t known how else to see him without the excuse of casework, which is undoubtedly the fulcrum of their relationship.

John is still stewing in his indignance, only half-aware that Greg’s still blathering on, when Mary barrels toward them, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of dance.

“Stop being boring, you two,” she huffs. “Come on. Up, up, up.”

John’s protests fall on deaf ears, and he’s effectively manhandled onto the dancefloor by Mary, Greg on his heels.

The three of them join Sherlock and spread out in a circle, Greg greeting Sherlock with an rough elbow to his arm, which Sherlock does not look pleased about, and John reluctantly bounces his shoulders and shifts his weight from foot to foot in time to--whatever the hell this [song](https://youtu.be/kyVcEL0-iWg) is. The lyrics are practically indecipherable and the only word he can understand is _fester_ , which is probably a slang term that John is best left in the dark about.

Greg's form of dance expression involves shadowboxing and bobbing his head like a chicken, so John has to press a fist to his mouth and look away to hide his grin. He catches Mary’s eye as he does, and she has her teeth digging into her lower lip, also practicing restraint. But Greg is going full steam ahead, looks a bit like a malfunctioning robot, now, so John loses it and bursts out laughing. 

Mary starts to clap and chant Greg’s name, and Greg is emboldened to take the centrestage of their circle, fist-pumping and hopping in time to the beat. John can’t stop grinning, and even Sherlock seems at odds with whether he should be amused or horrified by the display.

As the song starts to die down, Mary meets Greg’s eye and does a panto of sipping a cup, then jabs a finger over Greg’s shoulder. Greg nods enthusiastically, and they head off toward the bar without a word.

“Oi!” John calls after them, arms wide in a _what the fuck_ gesture, but they ignore him and are quickly lost amongst the mass of people bellied up to the bar.

As the track changes into [one](https://youtu.be/Xl4pbUfJENg) with a fey flute solo, John sighs and looks at Sherlock, hoping to find commiseration, but Sherlock is otherwise distracted with a thoughtful expression on his face, finger pointed to the ceiling.

Sherlock takes the few steps toward John, bringing with him a fragrant breeze of poncy, lavender bath product and sweat, and ducks his head by John’s ear. “Bach,” he says with the proper harsh fricative, letting out a puff of hot breath. “Partita in A minor.”

John listens. A man with a gravy voice begins to sing in Portuguese, lightly autotuned, accompanied by a Bach flute solo (apparently) that melds with a Middle Eastern motif against a drumming, slapping bass. 

Sherlock’s about to back away, but John grabs his arm, pulls Sherlock’s ear toward his mouth. “Your kind of music, then," John says, low and rumbling. "Gives you a leg up. Just like the ballroom dancing.”

Sherlock has an arch smile ghosting his lips as he turns his head. John doesn't budge, and they end up face to face, a hair's breadth apart, for a heart-hammering moment--suspended in time. 

Sherlock's finger comes to rest on John's jaw, applies light pressure, and John obliges, turning his head so Sherlock can brush lips against the shell of John's ear and say, “Certainly _not_ like ballroom dancing.”

And then Sherlock steps back, his eyes sweeping up John’s shirtfront to his eyes, and starts rotating his hips and shoulders.

John is anchored in place, rapt. 

Under the weight of John’s attention, Sherlock turns it up a notch, cocks his leg out to the side, rolls his body like liquid, one hand resting on the cocked leg’s upper thigh, spindly fingers brushing upward toward his hip bone in a teasing trail.

John realises he probably looks like a tit just standing around and gawking, so he starts to move, eyes straying from Sherlock to skitter over the crowd twisting rapturously around them. He and Sherlock are not standing close, per say, could fit two people back-to-back between them, but it’s clear to anyone watching that they’re two men dancing with each other--or, more precisely, two middle-aged men dancing together to a song that begs to be twerked to at a central London pub, aggressively blokey in the way most local pubs are.

When John finishes his circuit, his eyes drop to the hypnotic waves Sherlock’s making with his hips, tilted at counterpoint to his torso.

Sherlock has never been more blisteringly _hot_.

This sudden performance of sexuality, after all these years of being enshrouded in the mystery of whether or not Sherlock acknowledges it, whether or not he partakes in it in any way, shape, or form, is staggering to behold. 

When John raises his eyes, the look on Sherlock’s face is Sherlockian scrutiny, but of a different kind.

It’s fiery and intense, as it usually is, but there’s another layer there, one that makes John feel as if he is the only thing that matters, that exists. It’s the kind of look that makes John want to run headlong into a burning building and let it consume him. It’s both too much and not enough, it’s a push-and-pull that has John vibrating with frustration, so he has to look away, to the floor, but there's no escaping Sherlock's magnetism as movement in John's periphery catches his attention, causes him to drag his eyes across the floor toward Sherlock, to trace up his body. Sherlock is still squarely in his own kinesphere, behind an invisible line they aren’t meant to cross, and has his back to John, body moving like a metronome. John can’t do anything else but stare at Sherlock’s arse, pert in his tight trousers, and his mind fires off in multiple directions, picturing Sherlock beneath him, above him, in various permutations that all involve a bed (or a surface, John’s not picky) and not a shred of clothing.

If John had already been attracted to Sherlock, which he most certainly had, then this has brought that attraction to a fever pitch. Just watching Sherlock has made John’s cock swell in the confines of his trousers, and _maybe_ he's an easy sell, but the buttery ease of Sherlock’s movements, the unvarnished flirtation, his tunnel vision focus on John--it’s all at once overwhelming, confusing, and enticing. Sherlock is peering over his shoulder, looking at John obliquely through heavy-lidded eyes, and John knows that someone doesn’t dance like _that_ \--doesn’t look at a mate like that. Sherlock knows what he’s doing (not ballroom dancing, indeed), and he is taking advantage of their relative privacy in the anonymity of a crowd to express this to John, to tell him something without words, loud and clear. 

John had also felt stirrings of that _something_ when they’d danced behind closed curtains and doors in the sitting room at 221b, but he had locked it away. Now, that _something_ has broken from its chains and scarpered to this very dancefloor. Because John is not acting like someone disinterested in what Sherlock is offering. And maybe it’s partly the alcohol streaming through his veins, but it’s not the whole of it. It’s what he wants, has wanted for a long time.

And, apparently, somehow, it's what Sherlock wants too. 

John licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair, and maybe he’s finally getting into the thrumming music, allowing his limbs and body more fluidity, pushing and rolling his hips forward, boldly offering a tiny, flirty quirk of lips as his eyes glaze over with _want,_ supping up the view in front of him. John wants to take Sherlock by his waist and bring them flush together, wants to feel angles and hard length, wants to run his hands over his broad chest, wants to bury his face in Sherlock's crevices, lick saltiness off skin, breathe in nothing but his heady scent. Sherlock notices John's renewed efforts, maybe even reads John's thoughts, and turns so that they are face to face again, his eyes latching onto John’s groin. The old trousers that John’s wearing are one size too tight these days, and they’ve clearly exposed his desire. But John finds that he very much doesn’t mind. 

After an interminable moment, Sherlock looks up and, simply, raises an eyebrow.

The gesture is so innocuous, but at the same time so very heavy; it could be a question, an accusation, or even a proposition. But John won't allow himself to think about it.

Instead, he looks away, wishing he could disappear.

"John," Sherlock calls out over the din of voices and music, voice firm.

John inhales sharply before looking back, and Sherlock tilts his head to the right before widening the chasm between them with a backwards slide. It's the first time John realises how much distance they'd closed.

Looking to where Sherlock’s drawn his attention, he sees Mary and Greg bumbling back toward them, giggling like a couple of teenagers.

Mary.

His lovely wife.

And the mother of his child.

John had _forgotten_ about her, so enwrapped in the dancing and Sherlock and--well, Sherlock, mainly, but also this godforsaken raging boner. Almost as if he’s some kind of one-track mind neanderthal.

John’s mind spins.

His heart stutters.

He's free-falling. 

“Hello, gorgeous husband. Miss me?” Mary is saying in a cheery fortissimo, grabbing John’s face between her small, clammy hands and giving him a smothering kiss on the lips.

John takes a step away from her, numb, holding up a halting finger before turning abruptly and marching back to the booth. With a shaky hand, he snatches up Sherlock’s practically untouched tequila shots and drains them, then wrestles on his jacket and heads for the exit.

\--

It’s a blessedly cool evening, drying the sweat off John’s forehead, and the panic that had been building gradually subsides down to a hum.

He finds a closed shop and collapses against its graffitied roller-shutter, aluminium echoing with the impact.

John is not a good man.

He’s not a good husband. He’s not a good father.

He’s not the man Mary thinks he is.

John had cheated on her tonight.

These feelings for Sherlock, they’ve got to _stop_.

John isn’t gay, and he’s not straight, either, but he’s not exactly divulged that to anyone over the past 18 years--since his self-realisation--and isn’t about to start now. It would change everything, were he to come out. It’d change how people see him and how he’s meant to be and live his life. And, more importantly, John had made a vow to Mary. He’s not free. He has a daughter who needs a mother. Two parents.

Thankfully, he had managed not to do anything breathtakingly stupid, even being under the influence of alcohol, hadn’t passed the point of no return and gotten obviously physical with Sherlock. At least he’d managed to practice that much self-restraint, though it’s rather a low bar. And maybe one day John will tell Mary what had transpired because even though he hadn’t done anything with Sherlock, John had wanted so much more, and that had felt like a betrayal.

He should tell Mary.

And he will. It’s what married couples do. They are honest with each other, and they work through their differences.

He can only hope that Mary would forgive him.

For now, John will soldier on, just like he had moved on after the ballroom dancing lessons. It’s what John Watson does best. Keeps his head down, carries on.

John blinks through a blur, his eyes watery with tears, and he wipes the back of his hand over them roughly, angrily. While, earlier, the alcohol had cocooned him like a plush blanket, he’s now tumbled from the rose-coloured high into a black nothingness.

“There he is!”

Greg is zigzagging toward him, unsteady on his feet.

John hopes he doesn’t look too much like he’s just been having a cry, because that’d be fucking embarrassing.

Admirably, Greg makes it to John in one piece. He slaps a hand on John’s shoulder and gets at eye-level, squinting, as if trying to peer into John’s soul. “What’s all this about, then?”

“Nothing’s about--this is about nothing. Drank too much. Needed some air.”

Greg shakes his head in slow motion. “Something’s rotten in Denmark. I’m not as stupid as you and Sherlock think.”

John smiles sadly. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Greg.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not. So. You just stormed off. Mrs Watson was concerned.”

“Then why are _you_ here?” John accuses, annoyed that Mary hadn’t come to check up on him, even if he hadn’t wanted her to. It’s the principle of the thing. But Greg looks hurt by John’s snappish attitude (wrongly directed at Greg), so John stumbles over himself to say, ”Fuck. Sorry. Don’t worry about me, mate, go back inside and enjoy yourself.”

“Did Sherlock say something?”

John’s eyes wander, looking for an escape. “Hmm?”

“We left you alone with him, did he say something? It’s his MO, after all, to be a prick. I’ll knock his bloody block off if he did.”

John is taken aback by Greg’s protectiveness, but he supposes alcohol makes people do funny things.

“Nah, you know I’m impervious to his prick--uh, prick-ery,” John garbles. Greg is still hovering oppressively over him, so John gives Greg’s chest a little shove, regretting it immediately as Greg nearly trips over his feet and faceplants. He grabs Greg's arm. “Sorry! Fuck. Sorry.”

Greg stabilises himself, waves a dismissive hand, tears his arm out of John's grip. “S’nothing. S’okay. I’m good.” He looks beyond John, distant and grim. “Fuck, John. I’m 50. Five-fucking-zero. I’m almost dead. And I’ll probably be alone for the rest of my life because my ex-wife, the love of my sodding life, wanted to nosh off some nobody PE teacher."

This hits a little too close to home, and John’s spiraling again.

“Jesus,” John says, burying his face into hands. “ _Jesus_.”

“I know,” Greg says mournfully. “It’s pissing bleak. I'm never going to find anyone else like her. Just--never."

What if the love of Greg’s ex-wife’s life is the “nobody PE teacher?” And not Greg? Hadn't she deserved to follow her bliss? Undoubtedly, the way in which she’d gone about it had been indelicate, but she had followed it. That's more than John can say about himself. Even when he'd thought Sherlock was dead, he never thought he'd be truly happy, because Mary would never be Sherlock. But he'd found some happiness with Mary and had moved on, to a degree, as one does. And now Sherlock is alive, and John is, once again, squandering the opportunity to be with him. 

Because Sherlock is the love of John's life.

John's always known it, but he'd often dismissed it as background noise. But now, it's unavoidable. It's too loud. And it shouldn't be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's not what John had planned for his life's trajectory. And it isn't as if John doesn't love Mary; he certainly does. She's perfect. She’s his rock. She deserves the world.

But the way he feels about Sherlock--it’s unmatched.

It’s not just a physical attraction. It's the haunting regrets and earth-shattering grief he’d felt when Sherlock died, how his thoughts and dreams always manifest a Sherlock-shaped phantasm, the rare feeling of being _understood_ by someone, the hunger to be in Sherlock's company, to protect him.

It’s never been matched.

"I gave her everything," Greg is saying, his eyes suspiciously misty. "Christ, _everything_. And she didn't want any of it. I wasn't bloody enough, John."

But it doesn't matter how John feels about Sherlock.

None of what had happened with Greg and his ex-wife had been fair to Greg, or to Greg’s children. It’d been exceptionally cruel. Unjust. There had been too much collateral damage. John would rather die than willingly allow someone he loved to get hurt. Especially if he were the cause of that hurt. Rosie needn’t have a troubled home life; she should have the best life John can give her. And that would be the one in which he stays with Mary and they remain a happy family. It’s the life in which he is faithful to Mary, the woman he does, in fact, love. It’s not a herculean effort to stay. They’re happy together. They're making it work. Head down, carry on.

“Hey. Hey! John? You with me?”

Judging by the lost and perplexed look on Greg’s face, John suspects he’s drifted off for a while.

“Look, don’t think about all that now, yeah?" John hastens to say. "It is what it is. You'll make it work. You can make it work. But right now, you've more dancing and drinking to do.” Greg swims in front of his eyes. The tequila shots are kicking in. “So sod off and enjoy your night.”

Greg gives him a crooked smile. “Hate to sound like a sappy fuckin’ arsehole, but I’ll only enjoy it if you’re there, you know?”

John huffs out an uncomfortable laugh, but feels a surge of affection for the man. “Christ, well, what the hell can I say to that?”

“Not ‘no,’ that’s for sure!”

And so John manfully follows Greg back into the humid, loud pub, and tries to enjoy the rest of the night. For Greg’s sake.

Come morning, at this rate, with the amount of alcohol John’s plied himself with, maybe the night will be nothing but a faint memory.

**Author's Note:**

> I take music selection in my fics seriously, my friends, so here are some titbits about my choices:
> 
> The song that Mary and Sherlock dance to is [Boyfriend by Mabel.](https://youtu.be/xi3c-9qzrPY) I wanted a recent British dance song with lyrics that had the potential to make Super Hetero™ men uncomfortable. Runners up for this bit were Girls Like by Tinie Tempah ft. Zara Larsson (too bro-y) and Ladies' Night by Kool & the Gang (too old). But both slap.
> 
> Mary, a drunk Greg, John, and Sherlock dance to [Fester Skank by Lethal Bizzle ft. Diztortion.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyVcEL0-iWg&ab_channel=bizzlevideos) I chose this song because I thought it’d annoy John, who I’ve made a bit of an old fogey in this fic. It’s quite slangy and very British (also catchy as hell). And if you care (maybe you do, because you’re still reading my ramblings, thanks!), the “Fester Skank” is a viral dance that incorporates a stupid-looking stiff shoulder move in homage to Uncle Fester from the Addam’s Family. The title of the fic is a line lifted from this song, and while the song isn’t deep or poetic by any stretch of the imagination, the line fit perfectly.
> 
> John and Sherlock dance to [Bum Bum Tam Tam by MC Fioti, Future, Juan Magán, J Balvin, Stefflon Don, Mc Fioti ft. Future.](https://youtu.be/Xl4pbUfJENg) I partly chose this because of it sampling a Bach partita ([here is the piece in full](https://youtu.be/BQE9_Sb24io))--perfect for Sherlock. I also unabashedly love it; I may or may not have to twerked to it while writing the fic. I'll leave that to your imagination.
> 
> I'm 80% sure this'll remain a one-shot, but I've drafted a few scenes about where this could (more happily) go, so we shall see. Thanks for reading.


End file.
